


Holding the Infinite

by galfridian



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:31:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galfridian/pseuds/galfridian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They're going to die?" Maura asks.</p><p>"This year," Persephone says. "This is the church watch."</p><p>(Maura Sargent's journey to 300 Fox Way.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding the Infinite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/gifts).



"Jimi," Maura whispers, crouching beside her sister. The hall closet has just enough space to hold them both. "Why does daddy hate Aunt Celia?"

It's a warm autumn evening, perhaps the last pleasant day of the year. In the kitchen, their father and their aunt have settled into their annual argument, but the closet is all quiet comfort. Through the slits in the door, tendrils of fading sunlight dance on Jimi's face.

Maura is eight and just beginning to understand hate, but Jimi is thirteen and in Maura's mind, infinitely more wise. "He doesn't hate her," Jimi says. "He's afraid of her."

"Afraid?" At eight, Maura thinks she understands fear, and Aunt Celia – petite and willowy – doesn't seem a thing to be afraid of. "Why?"

"She's like mom," Jimi says. "Like us."

 

The first time Maura understands Jimi's meaning, the first time her father looks at her like he's seen a ghost, she's fourteen.

It's morning, a Saturday or Sunday, and he's on the phone with Grandma Aster. Outside, a crow lands in their meager little yard. As her father hangs up, the bird turns its head toward the house. "Maura," her father says, "Aunt Celia has died."

"I dreamed this," Maura says, watching the crow fly away.

"No," her father says. Something in his tone draws her gaze to him. He's taken a step back from her. "You didn't."

 

After the funeral, Maura crawls into the hall closet, Jimi close behind. Jimi is nineteen now, living in some little town called Henrietta, and fitting both of them is a feat. The closet threatens to spill them out. "I'm supposed to tell you not to talk about dreams," Jimi whispers.

"He doesn't like it," Maura guesses.

"No."

"Is this what you meant? About mom and Celia and us?"

"Oh, Maura," Jimi says, taking her hand. "The dreams are just the beginning."

 

This is the story Jimi tells Maura, cobbled together from nineteen years of off-hand remarks from Celia and sullen grumblings from their father:

At first, John Sargent doesn't believe Sabina Sargent has psychic powers. For years, he chalks up her predictions to coincidence. He's a sensible man, John Sargent, and he believes only in the present.

When Jimi is born with a birthmark over her heart, just as Sabina predicts, he's rattled. But over time, he credits mother's intuition to the prediction.

Then Sabina discovers she's pregnant with their second child. "I'll only have a few months with her," she tells John, but he doesn't believe her.

Maura is five months old when her mother dies.

 

Two years later, on a day when spring has just begun to unfurl, Jimi calls her. "Come to Henrietta this weekend. I want to show you something."

Maura is sixteen, and after two years of dreams and tarot readings, her father is a stranger to her now. They're acquaintances waiting out the end of an eighteen year sentence in a crumbling home. "Okay," Maura says.

 

"The Corpse Road," Jimi announces. They've arrived at the end of a dusty path. Jimi's friend, Persephone, parks the station wagon near a church as cavernous as it is derelict.

"Tonight," Persephone says, perching on the hood of the car, "is St. Mark's Eve."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Maura asks.

"Just wait," Jimi says, and so they do. 

A few minutes later, the atmosphere in the courtyard shifts. The air is cool, but it's also heavy with anticipation, as if the night has just taken a deep breath.

Then Maura sees him: A man, maybe thirty. There, but not there. He trudges toward them slowly, but he doesn't seem to see them. "Ask him his name," Jimi urges.

As the man crosses their path, Maura whispers, "What's your name?"

"Cornelius Feld," he says. His voice sounds far away. He keeps walking. Maura watches until he disappears.

Now, others are following his path. "They're going to die?" Maura asks.

"This year," Persephone says. "This is the church watch."

 

300 Fox Way is a house brimming with psychics, busy and alive. It's so crammed with people that Jimi and Maura have less space than in their little two bedroom house in West Virginia.

And yet, it feels so much greater. "I want to move here," Maura tells Jimi as they stumble into bed in the early hours of St. Mark's Day.

Her sister smiles, taking her hand. "Good."


End file.
